


Stars Hide Your Fires

by cyranothe2nd



Series: Stars Hide Your Fires [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Love, Kink Meme, M/M, Major Character Wounding, old fic is old, total angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-01
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 23:02:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyranothe2nd/pseuds/cyranothe2nd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kink-meme fill for this prompt: Sherlock actually does love his brother. He's just uncomfortable showing any brotherly love to him. Him asking Mycroft about his diet, etc. is actually his way of saying he loves him. Something happens though where Sherlock actually tellls Mycroft that he loves him. Maybe Sherlock feels that Mycroft actually needs to hear it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thanks to my beta oxfordtweed for her quick beta and Britpick. All remaining errors are my own.
> 
> Second, this fic was originally written in 2011, before the 2nd series, so please keep that in mind.

The worst week of Sherlock Holmes’ life began with a phone call.

He and John had just returned from breaking up a counterfeiting operation and, though he could not prove it, Sherlock was certain that Moriarty was behind the crime. The whole thing had the man’s tantalizing fingerprints all over it and Sherlock was gratified that, if he couldn't reach the consulting criminal himself, he could at least take out a large and lucrative piece of his operation. In the weeks since the pool incident, Sherlock had spent every waking moment going over cold case files, crime scene photos, and reams of notes written by incompetent police personnel; looking for patterns, sifting for clues. It was all he could do with John in hospital, recovering from burns to his torso and concussion from taking that extra second to push Sherlock into the pool. Hurt while saving Sherlock’s life and the knowledge of that was a clawing in his chest, making him want to tear and destroy the man who had forced John to do it. It was frightening to contemplate; this loss of balance, this added emotional instability that threatened the razor sharp clarity of his mind. 

It was such small things that did it, too. Like now: John was sitting on the sofa beside him; legs splayed, head tilted back at an exhausted angle, his hair brushing against the bright yellow afghan Mrs. Hudson had given John as a get-well gift. His eyes were closed and his hands rubbed tiredly over his face. He looked knackered and Sherlock did a quick mental calculation—twenty-seven hours since John had last slept. Longer for him, of course, but he was used to living on nicotine patches and cold tea dregs, while John was not. 

“You should go up to bed,” Sherlock said gently. 

It was asinine because it was an obvious statement, something like small talk, which he never did, and because he didn’t really want John to leave. He liked having him here, having him close. It soothed Sherlock to have him near after a case, to feel the warmth of him after cold nights running through London or looking at crime scene photos, staring into the depravity of which man was capable. Before John, Sherlock had never noticed the cold. Or at least, he’d paid it little mind. People were vicious and small-minded and obscene and his purpose was to figure out how and where and with whom. He never felt the sting of it, the dirty sinking weight of disappointment. Why should he? He expected no better of humanity. He still didn’t. But now…it was different. It wasn’t like caring. He didn’t care for the victims; they were just bodies. Nor for their grieving families, who just got in the way more often than not. But he cared about John and, as if by some magic, that was enough. 

This frankly terrified Sherlock. Caring made people careless. That was the reason that they covered up the faces of the cadavers used by med students, so they were just objects, not people. It was easier to live that way; simpler. 

But not better. Sherlock had concluded that at the foot of a hospital bed six weeks ago and, every day since, had revisited that conclusion and testing it against new data. John, whole and finally home, smiling vaguely at his surroundings and asking Sherlock if he’d care for a cuppa. John, following him closely as they chased suspects down dark streets, breath quick but gun hand steady. John’s hand finding his in the darkness, fingers squeezing, conveying that now was the time to rush the man with the gun, now before his compatriots returned. John, innocently delighted that a girl at the pub asked him out, only to frown in annoyance at Sherlock when he’d pointed out that she’d been paid to do so. And always, winding like a thread through this new data was the old; John willing to shoot a man, barely a day after meeting him, to save Sherlock’s life. John telling him to run at the pool. John knowing exactly what Sherlock wanted him to do, waiting for the moment Sherlock pulled the trigger to spring into action and save them both. John’s ease with Sherlock’s admittedly strange habits, his calm competence, his indefatigable goodness.

Points of data coalesced into a pattern, one that pointed out the singularity of John Watson. Sherlock watched, now, as John’s hands dropped from his face and his eyes forced themselves open. 

“Breakfast first. Then bed,” he said. 

Sherlock rather thought that John was as likely to fall asleep with his elbow in his toast as to eat it. But then, John was already pulling himself up, his hip brushing Sherlock’s arm as he shifted forward. 

“You should eat something to. And don’t say it’s boring,” He cut off Sherlock’s inevitable protest.

“I had actually been about to say that some food sounds lovely,” Sherlock said, just to annoy John, as he’d been about to say nothing of the kind.

John threw him a sour look over his shoulder, shuffling toward the kitchen. “You really are the most insufferable man alive,” he huffed. “Did you know that you are actually capable of making food for yourself? I know this new information must shock you, but—“

The shrill ring of a phone cut John off and he paused in the doorway, automatically reaching into his pocket for his mobile. Sherlock, of course, knew at once that the ringtone wasn’t John’s. In fact, it belonged to the pink phone—the one used for The Great Game, as John’s asinine blog had dubbed the bombing case—which was currently under the sofa, where he had tossed it in a fit of pique a week ago. Sherlock snaked a hand down and plucked it out, switching it on.

“Hello Jim,” Sherlock greeted calmly. He saw John tense, hands balling into fists. 

“Hello there, sexy,” Jim Moriarty’s voice answered back. “Been busy?”

“Oh, I think you know,” Sherlock answered smoothly. “What is it now, sixty-four of your agents in custody and fifteen crimes averted? Tut-tut, Jim. One would think you aren’t trying.”

John had pulled out his own phone and was texting someone, most likely Lestrade. His mouth was drawn down into a grim line and the hand holding the phone was trembling.

“Sixty-three,” Moriarty corrected. “It has been fun though, hasn’t it? The drugs ring—that was a real humdinger. Recognize any of your old haunts? I did so try to make it memorable for you.”

“Yes, I enjoyed the trip down memory lane,” Sherlock drawled. Honestly, he didn’t know why people made such a big deal out of his drugs. Not like it concerned anyone but him and the fact that Jim thought that he would be ashamed of it was entirely pedestrian. “Almost as much as I enjoyed catching that actress you hired to date John. Really Jim, you’re slipping.”

John shook his head at the mention of his name, pressing ‘send’ a bit more viciously than was necessary. He drifted closer, perching next to Sherlock on the sofa, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s. There was a question there but Sherlock couldn’t answer it, not yet. He looked away, focusing his full attention on the ambient sounds he could hear from Moriarty’s end.

There was a clicking sound, fingers on a keyboard, Sherlock deduced. Moriarty’s voice was a bit distorted as well, a slight echo added, as if he were in a large or unfurnished room. Not enough to work with, not nearly enough to find him, of course. But then, Sherlock hadn’t expected that, no matter what insults he offered the consulting criminal.

“Well, I’ve been a bit stretched for resources,” Moriarty said airily. “Which is why I’ve decided to offer you a deal. A partnership, my dear. You and I. You know we’d be great together. Think of it—taking apart the world piece by piece and building it into whatever we wanted. And we could, you know. We could do anything we wanted.”

Sherlock felt the rictus of a smile pull his lips up. He did not for a moment believe that Moriarty really meant to take him into his organisation. Control, exploit, even fuck—yes. He wanted all of that from Sherlock. But partnership? The very idea was ludicrous for a man like Moriarty. He didn’t know the meaning of the word. 

“And what would I have to gain from this ‘partnership’?”

“I could make it so you’d never be bored, Sherlock,” Moriarty answered smoothly. “You know I could. Look at you, surrounded by those imbeciles at the Yard, followed by your little dog. And none of them understand the game. None of them even know they’re playing. But you and I…we could play. I could fill your days with games that would light you up like a Christmas tree, Sherlock Holmes. And isn’t that what you want? What you’ve always wanted?”

“What I want, dear Jim,” Sherlock nearly purred, “Is you. Behind bars.” 

He heard the indrawn breath, a huff of fake outrage. “You wound me, Sherlock.” Jim’s voice dipped down into something low and sinister. “Remember that I can wound you.” He sounded truly angry, as if he’d really thought Sherlock would consider his offer. Then his voice smoothed out into one of pained regret. “I am sorry, Sherlock. Truly I am.” 

His voice sounded flat, final, with a false edge of sympathy in it that set Sherlock’s teeth on edge. The line went dead and then Sherlock put it together, the insincere apology and the threat made weeks ago that still echoed in his brain—I will burn the heart out of you--and Sherlock felt it, for just a moment, a burning in his chest like acid as his eyes flicked over to John, sitting rigidly beside him on the sofa, face drawn and lips nearly white with fury. Sherlock dropped the phone and launched himself at John, sending them both tumbling off the sofa and on to the floor. Sherlock waited, tense, arms flung over the smaller man, for a hail of bullets and a rain of glass. 

To his credit, John didn’t push him away or ask stupid questions. But he did wriggle free of Sherlock’s grasp and, pulling Sherlock along, army-crawled across the floor and into the windowless hallway. 

“Thank Christ Mrs. Hudson’s gone to her sister’s. You know how shirty she gets when we shoot the place up,” John told him. “Lestrade’s on his way, by the way.”

“Oh goodie, the Met makes all things better,” Sherlock drawled, mind working a mile a minute. No gunfire, which meant a possible bomb. Or that was what Moriarty wanted him to think and John would be shot as soon as they stepped into the street. 

“I know the bomb squad would ease my mind,” John said lightly. 

Sherlock laughed and it was all he could do to keep from reaching out and cupping the back of John’s neck in his hand. He placed his hands carefully under his knees to quell the temptation and leaned back. If the aim is to wound him then a bomb makes no sense. He told John so and John looked a bit relieved. 

“Well, at least my jumpers are safe,” John said dryly.

Sherlock was sure that he was still grinning foolishly when the front door banged open and quick footsteps—much lighter than Lestrade’s and the clack of heels indicated female—mounted the staircase. Sherlock stood quickly, John just behind him, as Sally Donovan came into view.

“Inspector Lestrade sent me to fetch you. You’re to come with me to the hospital.” Her face looked drawn and she was refusing to meet Sherlock’s eyes. 

“Why?”

She took a deep breath and finally looked at him, her eyes deep wells of sympathy. “Your brother’s been shot. Lestrade’s with him. Will you come?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your brother’s been shot. Lestrade’s with him. Will you come?”

“He’s alive,” Donovan was saying to John. “Or was, when they brought him in to A&E. That’s all I know.”

For a long moment the only thing Sherlock could hear was the blood rushing in his head and his own mind screaming, Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Of course it wasn’t John. You were so intent on the most obvious course of action that you completely ignored the other ways he could get to you. You didn’t even think of him, you Freak. You’re positively inhuman, no feelings at all. Your own brother and all you can think of is John Watson—Sherlock abruptly shut down that line of thinking. Time enough for it later. Best to focus on the facts at hand. 

“Crime scene,” he ground out. Sally turned those sympathetic eyes on him and he sneered, cutting her off before she could object. “Unlike your boss, I’d rather be doing something useful.”

Her eyes narrowed and Sherlock swept past her, John following. “Sherlock, I think we—“

“No,” Sherlock said, blocking the door with his body. “There is no we. You are still in danger and will remain here.”

“Like hell,” John said flatly, mouth set in a mulish line. 

“John,” Sherlock attempted to sound reasonable. “Moriarty has threatened your life and the lives of those I…care for. His goal is to punish me, to get me to stop. And—“ 

“Yes, right. I was there, remember? He said he’d burn the heart out of you.” 

“It can be done, John,” Sherlock said carefully. 

John regarded him seriously. “I know that,” he said in a low voice. “Just…he doesn’t know you very well if he thinks pain will stop you.” He looked up into Sherlock’s face intently. “And you don’t know me very well if you think it will stop me, either.”

If Donovan hadn’t been lingering nearby, Sherlock is fully convinced that he would have kissed John right then. As it was, he shielded John with his own body until they reached the shelter of the police car.

 

 

Donovan drove them to Mycroft’s home, an elegantly appointed and heavily walled mock Tudor outside Holland Park. DI Dimmock met them at the door.

“Mr Holmes,” he greeted, leading them through familiar corridors and into Mycroft’s dark-paneled office.

The desk at the end of the room is covered in a pool of dark blood. Sherlock’s mind automatically recorded the evidence and converted it to fact: Two shots, first at chest level while he was sitting. He stood, staggered and was shot again, in the back, just there; obvious from the detritus left by the paramedics. He stepped closer to the wall to examine the bullet hole. 

“Nine millimeter Browning, probably military issue, going by the precision of the shots. Got into the office, which means an employee, likely a security guard. I’ll need to speak to all of them at once, then see the security footage--“ He didn’t know he’d been speaking aloud until the firm pressure of John’s fingers around his wrist stopped him. The room was silent and Anderson and Dimmock were both staring at his with shocked, horrified expressions. 

“Good god, he really is a freak, isn’t he?” He heard Anderson mutter. 

“Lot not good,” John hissed. 

Sherlock felt his lips set into a grim line as he searched John’s face. Did John think--? But John was not looking at him. He stepped forward and plucked a teacup from the carpet; bone china with a delicate circlet of gold and cobalt, Spode if Sherlock isn’t mistaken and knocked from the desk when Mycroft was struck by the first bullet, tea staining the oriental rug. Just like that, it crashed into Sherlock his brother had been shot and suddenly he found it very difficult to breathe. 

John set the cup carefully onto its matching saucer and took Sherlock’s hand, leading him from the room. He found himself leaning against the wall in the hallway, staring into John’s worn face. 

“All right?”

Most definitely not all right. Sherlock’s mind felt as if it would vibrate apart. How did people do this? How did they feel so much and survive it? There were so few people he cared for in his life, so few people that really knew him or even tried to. Most passed in and out of his orbit without him noticing or expending any energy on feelings. Feelings were messy. Feelings got in the way of facts. They made life more difficult, muddled facts and logic until everything was a hopeless tangle of disappointment and need and longing. Take his feelings for John, for instance. It was obvious that John did not reciprocate and so Sherlock was left wishing for something that would likely never happen and would likely fail if it did. And he had only known John for a few months while Mycroft had been a fixture in his life for years—his sometimes enemy, sometimes ally and always pain in his arse. 

As children, he and Mycroft had been close. As close as brothers could be when they were a decade apart, at any rate. When their father had died and Sherlock had refused to leave his bed, Mycroft had sat beside him and read aloud until Sherlock had fallen asleep. And when he’d woken in the night with a pain so deep in his chest that he felt like he was dying, it was Mycroft who’d held him, stroked his hair, whispered reassurance. Years later, Mycroft had done the same thing as Sherlock’s veins burned and his mind felt charred to a crisp, cocaine and oxycodone blistering through his body. This time though, the pain was the fault of the man who held him, his busybody bastard of a brother who insisted that Sherlock’s brain was too singular to be rotted away with drugs. This time, when Sherlock was strong enough, he pushed Mycroft away, flinging out bitter words meant to wound. Sherlock could forgive Mycroft’s concern, even his pity, but could never brook his interference.

Feelings were the problem. Take all of the feelings and bin them, bury them deep so they couldn’t hurt, couldn’t wound. Where words like ‘sociopath’ and ‘freak’ didn’t matter, were even assets. 

He swallowed hard. “Yes. Of course.” 

“Mr Holmes?” Dimmock’s voice said from the doorway. John squeezed his hand and let go, stepping away. “If you need to talk to the staff, they’re all here.”

An hour later, they had the name of the shooter and, better, a fat file of personal information thanks to ‘Anthea.’ Better, she’d agreed to delay giving a copy of the folder to the police for another hour. The investigation would go faster without Dimmock and the rest of the Met trampling all over the evidence.

“His background check and financials were all clean,” Anthea explained as she handed the file over. It was the only time Sherlock had ever seen her without her Blackberry. “Decorated veteran, invalided out after an IED blast in Kabul. No wife, no children. Nothing in his past to suggest that he’d be open to bribery or blackmail. Mr Holmes, if I missed something—“ Her face was very pale.

“I’m sure you didn’t,” John said sympathetically. 

Sherlock said nothing. Questioning the staff had yielded little in the way of information. Despite the fact that he’d worked for Mycroft for over a year, Sebastian Moran had, by all appearances, kept to himself. Even the men who’d worked closely with him could tell Sherlock nothing about his personal life. 

“I need information.” Sherlock swept from the room, John calling a goodbye to Anthea before scrambling behind. Donovan had already left, of course, and it was a chilly walk to Kensington High Street to hail a cab. He barked out Moran’s home address to the cabbie, annoyed beyond belief at the wasted time.

“You don’t expect him to be at home, do you?” John asked, chafing his hands together against the cold.

“Of course not, don’t be idiotic,” Sherlock snapped. “But there has to be something, some shred of evidence he’s left behind. People just don’t shoot someone and vanish into the ether.” 

Sherlock’s phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out, deleting the message without reading it, just as he’d done with Lestrade’s last five updates on Mycroft’s condition.

“Has it occurred to you—“ Sherlock snorted because there was really nothing that went through John’s mind that had not occurred to Sherlock Holmes. John ignored him. “—that you’re too close to this?”

“Perhaps, Doctor, you would prefer me to weep at my brother’s bedside while his killer gets away?”

“What I would prefer is that you don’t pretend you aren’t affected by this. I saw your face in Mycroft’s office. I know—“

“You know nothing,” Sherlock said, voice low and deadly. “You think because you’ve lived with me for a few months that you know me?” John looked genuinely hurt at that but Sherlock pressed on, doing what was necessary. “Oh yes, of course you do. I’d forgotten; you’ve made me your hero. Sherlock Holmes, the Great Detective. Isn’t that what you called me in your blog?” He curled his lips up in a cold smile. “Your hero worship is really so tedious John, especially when you can’t be bothered to accept the truth.” Sherlock leaned forward and crooned into John’s ear, “I don’t make the mistake of caring.”

John thrust him bodily away, face pale, lips twisted in disgusted. “Stop the cab,” he called and the cabbie pulled to the curb, barely pulling to a stop before John wrenched the door open and stepped onto the pavement. He slammed the door closed and the cabbie pulled out again. 

It was better this way, Sherlock reflected. Before questioning the staff, he’d pulled Dimmock aside and asked for a favor. A security detail would be following John from the moment he stepped out of the cab, keeping him safe—from both Moriarty and Sherlock himself. Because Sherlock knew that to win the game, he was going to have to break the rules.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon has Mycroft seven years Sherlock’s senior. However, there are ten years between Mark Gatiss and Benedict Cumberbatch so I went with that.
> 
> Special thanks to oxfordtweed for her quick beta and Britpick. All remaining errors are my own.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock knew that to win the game, he was going to have to break the rules.

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was standing in the middle of Sebastian Moran’s dingy little flat. The place was neat as a pin, with a soldier’s penchant for austerity; no pictures on the walls, no papers on the pitted tabletop, no dishes in the sink. It looked like it hadn’t been lived in at all. Which Sherlock deduced was true. The flat was a decoy. Oh, there was nothing obviously wrong with the flat. Moran had been clever enough to hire a cleaning service, so there was no dust on the bookshelves and the milk in the refrigerator was fresh. But the kitchen taps turned only with difficulty, obviously stuck tight with disuse, and the flyer from a local pizzeria was still lying where it had been slid under the door, advertising specials that ended a week ago. Another dead end, then.

He was reaching for the doorknob when suddenly the door was kicked violently open and a fist connected with his mouth. Sherlock stumbled back but keeps his feet and crouched, not managing to avoid the next blow but taking it in the chest instead of the stomach. He twisted and punched back. There was a satisfying ‘unf’ from his attacker. There were three of them but he hadn’t the time to see their faces before the first was on him again, driving in with his body, managing to knock Sherlock to the ground. Sherlock rolled as his assailant lifted a foot to kick him but he could not regain his feet before one of the others dived on him, knocking the wind out of his lungs. He manages one arm free of the tangle of limbs and cuffed the man on the ear. There was a sharp cry and the answering punch caught him in the temple and had him seeing stars. Then someone was yelling.

“Stop! That ain’t him. Johnny, I said stop!”

The man on top of him shifted his weight off and he heard someone saying, “Get him up.” He was hauled to his feet and looked into a familiar face.

“Billy?”

“Mr Holmes,” The waiter grinned at him. “Sorry for the scuffle, thought you was someone else.”

“Did you now?” Sherlock’s eyes traveled over Billy and his compatriots. The larger one was pressing a sleeve to his bleeding nose and eying Sherlock venomously. “Collecting, are you?”

“Yeah well, Angelo’s is great but it don’t pay the bills. So, I get a bit on the side from time to time.”

“And Sebastian Moran owes your boss?”

“In deep, he is,” Billy told him. “And not just us, neither. Last time we was here, Alfie’s crew was here, too.”

“Well, that does explain a few things,” Sherlock said, dusting off his coat. He heard a police siren in the distance. He pushed past Billy, pausing in the doorway. “And Billy? Best not be here when the Met show up.”

Sherlock felt his face break into an honest to goodness smile and he rounded the corner away from the flat. It’s true that his head aches abominably and that his best friend is angry with him and that his brother lies in hospital. But he also knows exactly where Sebastian Moran is.

 

 

Sherlock walked through the club, nodding tightly to players that caught his eye, fingering the wad of bills in his pocket nervously. He had altered his appearance somewhat. His hair was brushed straight back from his forehead, his shirt buttoned and his posture stiffer. His hands moved continuously from his trouser pocket to his lip, his eyes flicking over the gaming tables with fervent anticipation. He looked, he knew, like a gambling addict who needed a fix.

The Bagatelle Card Club was a throwback to a bygone era of exclusive gentleman’s clubs. It had the distinction of being both small enough and discreet enough to operate independent of the gangs that ran gambling in the city. The clientele was most definitely moneyed, though not upper crust; sons of peers rubbing shoulders with stock brokers and surgeons. It was just the place for a man like Moran, who owned money to every mob boss in London and who had just received a big payoff from Moriarty. 

Sherlock drifted closer to the blackjack table, pretending to watch the game with interest while surreptitiously scanning the crowd. His quarry sat at a craps game three tables away, next to a stock broker in a navy suit. He was leaning over a stack of chips, his face blank, his bearing military straight. Sherlock amused himself by thinking of nineteen ways to kill him before anyone knew what was happening. 

“Sir? You want in?” The blackjack dealer brought his attention back to the present. 

“Oh, yes,” he said in a voice a half octave higher than his own. He slid into the empty seat. 

“Fifty quid minimum,” the dealer told him and Sherlock unrolled the bills and exchanged them for chips. The game was tedious and he had to concentrate on not counting the cards, losing as much as was credible, all the while keeping Moran in his sights, trying to pace his losses with his quarry’s. 

It took hours for Moran’s stack of chips to dwindle, his face tightening with each loss until it was a mask of anger. Finally, at half-past one in the morning, he pushed back from the table, scooping up his remaining chips and striding to the desk to check out. Sherlock went all in on his last hand, losing handily when the dealer dealt twenty to his seventeen. He pasted a sick, disappointed look on his face and ambled away, timing his exit so that he could follow Moran unobtrusively. The man headed away from the club on foot, coat collar turned up against the unseasonably cold wind and Sherlock followed, hunching over and adding a slight shuffle to his stride that made him appear older and frailer. 

Moran did not look back as he crossed the street, entering a seedy hotel. Sherlock followed, lingering in the lobby as Moran took the lift, punching the button for the fifth floor. Sherlock waited for the doors to close before racing up the stairs. He had just rounded the corner when the lift chimed and he pressed his back to the crumbling plaster of the wall and listened as Moran unlocked a door that was across the hall and to the right of the stairwell. Sherlock peered around the corner to glimpse Moran disappearing into room 541. He pressed his ear against the door and listened. He could hear the taps running in the bathroom and he crouched, taking out his lock picks. He swiftly unlocked the door and pushed it open.

It was only the fact that he was still kneeling that saved him from being shot in the chest. The bullet whizzed over his head and Sherlock threw himself forward, tackling Moran as he squeezed off another shot. Sherlock felt the bullet graze his ribs, burning a fiery trail against bone as his body knocked the other man off his feet. Sherlock reached for the gun, breaking Moran’s wrist and forcing a grunt from his lips as he wrenched the gun away. He rolled to his feet, bringing the gun up and pointing it triumphantly in Moran’s face. 

The ex-soldier grinned ruefully, clutching his broken wrist to his chest. “You must be Sherlock,” he said. “Jim told me all about you.” He rocked back on his heels, looking smug.

“Did he?” Sherlock’s voice was low and very precise. 

“Oh yes. He told me you would come looking for me. And here you are.”

“Here I am,” Sherlock echoed. “And here you are, Sebastian. What do you think happens when gunshots are heard in a shabby little place like this? My money is on nothing. And believe me, I’m a better gambler than you are.” He smiled coldly. “We have all day, Mr. Moran. Nothing but time for you to answer my questions.”

The man on the floor drew himself up. “It’s Colonel Moran,” he said flatly. “And tell me, while you’re here, who’s out protecting your flatmate, hmmm? The Met? Would you trust them against Jim, Sherlock? I wouldn’t.”

It was a ruse, Sherlock knew. Yet he couldn’t help the frisson of fear that wound down his spine. He clamped down on the fear and thrust it away with the other feelings. It would not help him now.

“Where is Jim Moriarty?” he asked softly.

Moran glared at him, lips pressed in an obstinate line. 

“Very well,” Sherlock said. He stripped the clip from the gun and placed it in his trouser pocket, tucking the gun into his waistband at the small of his back. Then, he stepped forward and kicked Moran precisely in the chest. The breath wheezed out of the ex-soldier’s lungs with a sigh and he fell back to the floor, still clutching his wrist. Sherlock waited for him to catch his breath before kneeling and placing his fingers lightly over the ribs he’d just broken. He pressed in. Moran’s eyes widened and he gave a high, gurgling scream.

“Where is Jim Moriarty?” Sherlock repeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Bagatelle Card Club is a canon haunt of Colonel Moran’s and figures heavily in “The Adventure of the Empty House.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moran’s eyes widened and he gave a high, gurgling scream.
> 
> “Where is Jim Moriarty?” Sherlock repeated.

The sun had fully risen before Moran told him what he wanted to know. Or rather, all that Moran knew, which was pitifully little. He had met with Moriarty twice; first when he’d been recruited three months ago and then to collect the money after he’d completed the job. Both times had been in an abandoned warehouse in Norwood with the ridiculously picturesque name of ‘The Falls.’ They communicated via coded email using a Vigenère cipher with the keyword ‘Kerckhoff.’ Moran’s laptop was on the desk near the door and Sherlock scooped it up on his way out. The man himself lay on the floor, unconscious but alive. 

It disgusted Sherlock how little actual violence it had taken for Moran to break. The man was a coward, a disgrace to the Armed Forces. Sherlock had told him so, just before he’d bludgeoned him unconscious. It was hard not to compare Sebastian Moran to John Watson; both invalided from the Army, both served with distinction in Afghanistan, both craved the action of the battlefield. But John had a strength that Moran lacked. He might crave action, might need the rush of it, but he would never let that need violate his own moral code. Moran made concessions, small ones at first, like the gambling, but they soon became larger, carving out paths in his inner landscape until the man was twisted and venal. John was uncompromising. It was why Sherlock couldn’t have him here now. He would never have approved of Sherlock’s method of extracting information and his conscience would not have permitted him to stand by while Sherlock meticulously broke every rib in Moran’s body. 

Afterward, Sherlock had seriously considered killing the man. It would have been easy. He knew a dozen ways to hide a body so no one would ever find it. And, what’s more, Moran deserved it. But there was a voice, which sounded suspiciously like Mycroft’s, telling him to play the bigger game. He sighed and sent a text to Lestrade, knowing that this was one arrest the Detective Inspector would want to make himself. 

John was not at home when he arrived at 221B but the slight warmth emanating from the unplugged tea kettle indicated that he had left for the surgery just a few minutes before Sherlock’s return. He plugged Moran’s laptop in and busied himself with decrypting the email exchange between him and Moriarty. Moran’s reports consisted mostly of Mycroft’s habits and movements, as well as any possible weaknesses in his security. Moriarty’s replies were simple instructions; impossible to glean anything from them. 

Sherlock considered going to Norwood to look over the warehouse but knew it would be a useless venture. Moriarty wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave any evidence of his whereabouts there and a quick check of the property’s owner yielded no ties. 

Sherlock ground his teeth in frustration. There had to be a way to find Moriarty. Had to. What was he missing? He levered himself up from the armchair and pulled out the boxes of case files that John had stacked neatly beside the fireplace. Sherlock pulled off the box tops and spread the folders in front of him. There had to be something here, some pattern, something he’d missed. There had to be.

The sound of the kitchen door opening startled him and Sherlock realised that he’d been sitting on the floor, reading through case files for hours. He straightened, stiff muscles protesting. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, sharp and heavy. He ignored it, focusing instead on the sound of John moving about in the kitchen. John was still angry with him, as evidenced by the fact that he’d used the kitchen door rather than coming in through the sitting room. This worried Sherlock, as John never stayed angry at him for more than a few hours. Perhaps he’d gone too far in pushing John away? 

Still, it was pleasant to hear his footfalls and the sound of water splashing into the tea kettle. Domestic. Something that Sherlock had certainly never thought he’d enjoy, although Mycroft had told him once that—

Sherlock stood, abruptly banishing that thought. The sharp pain in his belly had turned into a dull ache and moved up into his chest, clenching around his throat. Sherlock ignored that too, pulling his phone from his pocket and sending a text to Lestrade. He counted the seconds it took for Lestrade to respond and had just got to thirty-two when his mobile buzzed.

Dimmock is handling my cases but I will arrange for you to speak to them. John can tell you M’s condition but you really ought to come yourself. He will want to see you when he wakes.

Sherlock disregarded the last bit, sending a text to DI Dimmock before he shrugged into his coat and flagged a cab. 

His next three days were spent entirely with chasing down the loose threads of Moriarty’s organisation. Questioning the suspects in the counterfeiting ring led him to a money laundering operation working out of a seamstress shop in Farrington Road. This, in turn, led to a human trafficking ring, then to the headquarters of a famous gang boss who fronted drugs money to various corporations in return for insider trading tips. The gang boss was surprisingly helpful, once Dimmock had made his situation clear to him, and he’d given Sherlock a list of names and addresses that led to a spectacular car chase and the arrest of a group of domestic terrorists that had been wanted in connection with the failed bombing of Smithfield. Dimmock’s superiors were talking about a promotion and the DI was embarrassingly grateful.

Sherlock was furious. Seventy-two hours, eighteen arrests and millions of pounds in drugs and laundered bills seized and he was still no closer to catching Moriarty himself as he had been a week ago. Now, slumped over the sofa in his flat, Sherlock raked his hands through his hair in frustration. The nicotine patches weren’t helping anymore; his brain still felt slow and sluggish. His body ached and his vision was smeared with wavering colors along the edges. Exhaustion was creeping up on him, he knew, stealing his ability to reason, stealing time. He could not afford a loss of either. He could not stop until it was done, until Moriarty was dead. He had already failed to keep those around him safe. He could not fail in this as well.

Sherlock felt that odd ache in his chest again, a phantom hand squeezing his heart and a burning at the back of his throat. He wrapped his arms around his middle and curled into the pain, closing his eyes. Perhaps he could just take a moment to…

The sound of a phone ringing startled Sherlock awake. He snapped his eyes open. The room was dark, the only illumination coming from the street lamps outside. He could hear car horns and sirens and people talking in the street below but the flat was still and quiet. Which meant he’d slept for six hours at the least. It also meant that John was not at home. 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. He’d not seen John Watson in four days but he knew, both from the clues the man left behind and from John’s police detail, that John had not left the flat except to go to work and, once, to visit Mycroft in hospital. Despite what he said, Sherlock knew that John was an intelligent man and that he was cognisant of the danger and would not risk himself unduly, if not for Sherlock’s sake than for his own. His strop at Sherlock would not impinge on his good sense; Sherlock was certain of that, as he was certain of so much about John. 

Still, Sherlock ghosted silently up the stairs and pushed John’s bedroom door open, just to be sure. The bed was empty and unrumpled. The bedside table drawer, where John usually kept his gun, was pulled out and empty. Sherlock retrieved his mobile from his jacket pocket and viewed his messages. One from Lestrade, one from Dimmock but nothing from John. Sherlock’s eyes fell to the pink phone. One voicemail. Moriarty’s gleeful voice.

“Guess who I have?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Vigenère cipher was broken by Auguste Kerckhoff. Moriarty has a sense of humor.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty’s gleeful voice. “Guess who I have?”

The warehouse was dark. Sherlock entered through an unlocked side door and made his way across the empty space, relying on the moonlight coming in from the wide, high windows. Moran’s pistol was a welcome weight tucked into the small of his back. When he’d first heard Moriarty’s words and figured out what they meant--John!--Sherlock had spent a few moments in blind panic. Then, calm had descended over him. He was in the eye of a hurricane and he could feel everything. The rhythmic beating of his heart, the slow movement of air through his lungs, the pull and push of muscles as he moved; all clear and distinct and precious.

Sherlock was going to die. 

The certainty was a warm weight in his chest. He realised that for years he’d simply been waiting, wondering when it would happen. He didn’t have a death wish, didn’t really want to die, but the thought of his death didn’t frighten him like it did most people. It didn’t trouble him to think of it; it might even be better, more peaceful. He could finally rest. All the data, all the small details that screamed in his face would finally be silenced; his brain would finally be quiet.

It pleased him aesthetically to think that he would die doing something noble. He would save John and avenge his brother. That was a good death, a clean death--so much better than dying of an overdose or at the hand of some petty criminal in a dark alley somewhere. Mycroft would be pleased, he thought. He was always babbling about how Sherlock should settle down and do something with his life. Finally killing Moriarty seemed as good a goal as any. John would be proud too, he knew. Oh, he would mourn. He would be sorry and this too pleased Sherlock; to know that someone would care that he was gone, but John would move on. He would marry and have children and live a normal life without Sherlock’s shadow hanging over him.

Sherlock had almost died once before of a drugs overdose. Lestrade had come round to his flat and found him without much of a pulse and he’d woken in A&E, feeling horrid. Then Mycroft had come and locked him up in a truly awful bedroom in his townhouse. He’d clearly been planning this little abduction for a while, as the windows were bricked in and the wooden door had been replaced with a heavy steel door that closed and locked from the outside. There was a nurse, of course, and drip bags of Kemstro and clonidine; Mycroft was as ruthlessly genteel in this as he was in anything. In the evenings, after the nurse had left, Mycroft would sit beside his miserably shaking body and stroke his hair, murmuring soothing nonsense until Sherlock fell into a medicated sleep. 

When it was over, Sherlock had looked Mycroft in the eye and said, with all the venom he could muster, “I hate you. Never come near me again.”

Sherlock reflected that that time—the sweet sting of the drugs in his veins and the way his mind had slowed and his heartbeat measured and everything clear as crystal—felt just like this. Sherlock had found a way to achieve that clarity without drugs, solely within the purity of his own mind. It was miraculous. It was a tragedy that it would have to end.

“That’s far enough,” A high cold voice called.

The lights suddenly sprang on and Sherlock blinked against the glare. Jim Moriarty stood in the centre of the empty warehouse, John Watson gagged and bound on the concrete beside him. A red laser sight danced on John’s chest, a mute threat. 

“You really don’t know how to take a hint, do you?” Jim asked conversationally. Sherlock pulled out the Browning and trained it on him. A smile played at Jim’s mouth. 

“Really, Sherlock? We’re going to play this game again?” He knelt down and let his fingertips brush over John’s face in a parody of a caress. John jerked away, glaring up at his captor. Moriarty laughed delightedly. “Cute. I’m beginning to understand why you like him.”

“Leave him alone. It’s me you want.” 

Jim stood, brushing invisible dust from his knees. He stepped over John and closer to Sherlock. “Are you offering, Sherlock?”

“Myself for him,” Sherlock affirmed.

“Oh but this is too good! Can it be that you really care for your little dog?” Jim’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Pathetic. The Great Detective brought down by an Army mongrel.”

Sherlock’s eyes drifted to John. John’s shoulders jerked, obviously working at his restraints, even now unwilling to be a mere pawn in the game. For a moment, Sherlock felt a swell of pride that this brave, resourceful, wonderful man was his friend. He met John’s eyes and tried to communicate his thoughts; his respect and regard for the man, and his regrets. It felt like goodbye and, from the look on John’s face, he knew it too. Sherlock nodded imperceptibly, as if to say, It’s all right. I’ll buy you the time.

“Attention wandering, my dear? We can’t have that.” Jim’s voice took on a truly nasty edge. “Did you like that bit with your brother? Didn’t expect that, did you?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked back to Moriarty and he must have liked whatever he saw there because he laughed again, his giggle echoing in the bare space. 

“It is a pity that he wasn’t killed though but then, Moran was such an awful shot. Amazing who they let into the military these days, isn’t it?” 

Sherlock’s eyes shifted from him to John and back. John nodded at him.

“Don’t worry your head over him, darling,” Moriarty purred. “He was nothing to me. There’s never been anyone but you.”

He’d gotten much closer to him than Sherlock had anticipated but it didn’t matter because John’s nod said that he’d freed his hands and Sherlock was lifting the gun, calculating an invisible trajectory. He turned and fired three short bursts and the man with the laser rifle crashed through the window above Sherlock’s head. Then, the gun was knocked from his hand and an arm tightened around his throat. 

“Really, Sherlock, how did you think this was going to end?” Jim hissed into his ear, pressing the barrel of a gun against his temple. Sherlock closed his eyes and waited. 

The gun shot never came. Instead, there was a puff of breath against his cheek and a warm wetness on the back of his neck. Then the weight of Jim’s body dragging him down. 

“Sherlock,” John called, grasping Sherlock’s wrist in his warm hand and pulling him up. 

Jim Moriarty’s body laid face up on the pavement next to him, eyes open, throat slashed. Sherlock’s back was wet with blood and the knife in John’s hand clattered to the ground as Sherlock seized him and crushed John’s lips to his. It wasn’t a risk, not really. Sherlock was certain that he’d already damaged their relationship past repair. Thus, the kiss was not a gamble so much as a goodbye. 

John stood unmoving for an instant and then he kissed back, his lips moving over Sherlock’s as his hands wound themselves in the collar of Sherlock’s coat. He broke away after a moment, looking flushed and breathless.

“You bloody idiot,” he said. “You really did think you were going to die, didn’t you?”

“Shut up,” Sherlock said and bent to kiss him again.

 

 

A few minutes later, DI Dimmock and Sergeant Donovan interrupted what was shaping up to be the best snog of Sherlock’s life. In the whirlwind of questions and explanations that followed, Sherlock lost sight of John and spent an infuriating half-hour laying out every action he had taken since entering the warehouse in minute detail. He honestly thought that Donovan was getting off on forcing him to answer the same question over and over and he was about to snap something churlish and cutting when John was suddenly beside him, taking his hand and pulling him away.

“I’ll bring him to the Yard tomorrow morning, yeah?” 

Donovan assented, smirking at their linked hands and rolling her eyes a bit at John’s back. John paid her no mind, pulling Sherlock towards the door. They walked to the main road and hailed a cab, John cutting him off before he could give the cabbie their address.

“St Mary’s, please.”

Sherlock cut him a look and John said, very firmly, “It’s time.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “St Mary’s, please.”
> 
> Sherlock cut him a look and John said, very firmly, “It’s time.”

It was nearly midnight when they reached the hospital but the ward was lit up like midday, bad fluorescents reflecting off the white waxed tiles on the floor. Lestrade’s shirt was wrinkled and his face was grey with exhaustion and worry but he met them with a smile.

“Sherlock,” he greeted. “Glad you’ve come.” No hint of disapproval or sarcasm, just a deep relief. John shook his hand and stepped away from Sherlock, saying a few words to a nurse before turning back. 

“He’s going to be all right, we think. The surgeon that worked on him is good; we went to school together. He’s in a medically induced coma now and won’t come out for a few more days.”

This was all said in the even, slightly sympathetic tones of a trained medical professional but John’s hand closed over his own and squeezed lightly. 

“I’m here if you need me,” John murmured and released him, stepping away and allowing Sherlock to enter alone. 

Dread crept icy fingers up Sherlock’s spine and his head felt full of spider’s silk. The room was small but it was private. A single window stood opposite the door, its blinds drawn up. A standing curtain was drawn around the bed, white like the floor, though the walls are a dull beige and it was obvious that the paint was at least five years old because—

Sherlock stopped himself, knowing that he was merely prolonging the inevitable. He took a deep breath. The pain was back, a dull ache in his chest that climbed up his throat and felt as if he were being throttled. Sherlock hated it, hated the way his legs had gone all weak and shaky as he walked across the room. He reached out and pulled the curtain open, the slider making a slight whooshing noise as it moved easily aside and Mycroft was there, lying in the white hospital bed and looking incredibly small. It was strange, seeing him like this. He’d always been a larger than life figure for Sherlock, not just because he was older and therefore more impressive but because he seemed truly invincible. When Sherlock was a child, Mycroft was the one he had depended on to explain incomprehensible things like tradition and sympathy and other bewildering notions. Mycroft was fully as intelligent as Sherlock but he was also unburdened with Sherlock’s bafflement in the face of human emotion. He understood what was Good and Not Good without having to be told and Sherlock had always been jealous of that, jealous of Mycroft’s ability to understand people while not losing any bit of himself.

It was getting harder for Sherlock to breathe. A tube ran from Mycroft’s mouth to a machine by his side and it was this that was making the whooshing sound, forcing air into and out of Mycroft’s lungs. His chest rose and fell spasmodically and his face was pale as paper on the white pillowcase and it was all wrong, wrong, wrong. Sherlock sank into a plastic chair that stood by the bedside and ran his hands over his face. He was crying, he realised as he felt the wetness on his cheeks with his fingertips and it was as if that realisation opened the door behind which he’d locked his emotions and he buried his face in the blanket beside his brother’s still hand and wept.

It seemed to take hours before he’d cried himself out. He knew that he had spoken, pushing words out between sobs, but could not remember what he’d said. ‘I forgive you,’ possibly or ‘I love you.’ No, probably not that. More likely, ‘You’d better get better you lazy cat, the British government cannot run itself.’ 

He felt lighter, freer than he had in years. The door opened and he heard John’s step, hesitant, and deduced that John had heard him crying and was concerned. A slight smile tilted his mouth. John’s hand was warm and sure on his shoulder and it felt like a new beginning. He turned his face toward John.

“Let’s go home,” Sherlock said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check out the companion Mystrade fic, [Winter Wind](http://archiveofourown.org/works/409328)


End file.
